


Like A Bridge Over Troubled Waters

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, explicit exploration of death, if the death of any of the listed characters would trigger you - probably dont read this, may trigger those with suicidal ideation, sorry trying to give fair warning without giving away the plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a ficlet based on the pictures we have been getting from Setlock. (1) The "happy family" pics in the market; (2) the destroyed car(s); and (3) Ben running on Vauxhall Bridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People tell you that when the unthinkable happens, time slows down. But that’s not quite true. When the unthinkable happens, everything stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV

People tell you that when the unthinkable happens, time slows down. But that’s not quite true. When the unthinkable happens, everything stops.

I arrive moments too late. I hear the rending of metal and panicked shouts. I crest the bridge just in time to watch the car careen into the river. Time stops. There is only the car, front-end completely submerged, and me, frozen on the top of the bridge.

My brain won’t function. The doors to my mind palace are locked tight. Help is not coming.

I register the icy water against my skin. I must have moved at some point. I can hear the desperation in my breathing.

The back window is still above water. An incongruous soft tinkling of glass sounds when it breaks. I wish it was louder, harsher, something.

My hands are tearing at vinyl straps. When did I start shaking?

Finally, finally, I clutch the small bundle to my chest.

I look up. John is struggling to free Mary. Her head is bleeding. She is unconscious and the water is rising fast.

A sharp cry and Mary is loose. Is John yelling?

"…Go, Sherlock! Get them out of here! Sherlock? Go now! You have to go now!"

Mind palace still on lockdown. I cannot process anything beyond the shape of John’s mouth as it forms his words. So beautiful. His eyes glint a steely blue and his shoulders are taut. This is John, the soldier…my soldier.

He shoves roughly at my shoulder. I can only stare.

_John?_

He shakes his head sadly and points up at the rear window. Oh! The car is almost completely submerged. When did that happen?

His eyes are locked onto mine, desperately reminding me of my promise. The words echo loudly through my empty head.

_…I will always be there…for all three of you…_

I know what he is asking. He knows I cannot refuse. He cannot ask this of me. He can’t.

_Please._

He shakes his head. My eyes burn and I can’t tell if it’s the tears or the river water but that hardly matters. I can’t even reach for him. My hands are full of his family. He looks at me and sees anyway.

A harsh nod and I push firmly off the backseat, propelling myself through the broken back window. I keep the child bundled against my chest.

As I surface, the flashing blue lights are blinding and a familiar voice is speaking. Greg, thank god, it’s Greg.

I hand Mary over to rescue divers and place the tiny child in Greg’s arms. Hands wrap around my arms. I struggle. I have to go back. Can’t they see? I have to.

I kick out and my foot lands squarely against someone’s chest. I can’t find the energy to care. There is only one thing that matters right now. And I cannot even see him anymore.

My chest aches as I draw in air. I swim frantically, impractically, I should conserve air, limit my movements. I don’t.

I can see the car now. Swim faster. Grab the window, force myself through. Red ribbons dance through the water. Oh right, broken glass. My hands should hurt. They don’t. The ribbons float away and mingle with greyish-blond strands of hair.

_John._

John is not moving. JOHN is not moving. Oh god. _Oh_ god.

His seat belt is hopelessly knotted around him. My hands scramble over it anyway. I trace his face, touch his lips, his eyelids. Press my cheek against his head.

_The pocket knife!_

Thank heaven for small mercies. John didn’t even notice he left it behind. Not much use for a utility knife in the suburbs. I couldn’t bear to let it sit in disuse, have taken to carrying it around with me. Sentiment. Caring is not an advantage? Caring just might save John’s life.

I can feel my lungs burning for air. Don’t care. Push it down. Ignore. Not important. I hack away at the vinyl strapping John into his watery would-be grave. It gives out eventually. I wrap John in my arms and kick toward the back window.

I’ve miscalculated. It’s been too long. My legs are tired. Black spots cloud my vision. I am failing John. Again.

I press my lips against his forehead.

_I’m sorry._


	2. I Will Lay Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is not at all like I imagined it. It's dark but there is no peace. Just an insistent ringing and constant press of sound that could almost be voices. It reminds me of the percussive blasts of IEDs and blown eardrums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the crash on the bridge. John's POV.

Death is not at all like I imagined it. It's dark but there is no peace. Just an insistent ringing and constant press of sound that could almost be voices. It reminds me of the percussive blasts of IEDs and blown eardrums. 

I wonder if there is anything else here in the darkness. There must be, right? Light or sound or something. I mean what would be the point of this? It's almost worse than life. A persistent self-awareness that only intensifies with the growing reassurance that I am alone in complete darkness in perpetuity. 

I think about Mary and the baby. Suddenly, the loneliness is a comfort. Surely if they were dead, they would be here too. The conspicuous absence of one curly-haired detective releases a fierce bolt of joy in my chest. They all made it out. 

Thank God.

I can smell the copper tang of blood and the harsh stench of professional-grade antiseptic. That's not right. Surely death is meant to smell warm and welcoming?

I blink and suddenly the light is blinding. A respite from the oppressive blackness is welcome but the transition could certainly have been more gradual. 

As my eyes adjust, I see him, curly hair matted to his forehead and battling with the nursing staff who seem to be attempting to remove him from the room. 

"Sherlock?"

I ask, but I'm not sure I make any noise. The nurses pay no attention either way. I can hear faraway voices, garbled like listening underwater.

"Sir, you are not his emergency contact. If you are not family, I must insist you wait in the reception area until..."

The animalistic yelp of frustration and visceral hurt coming from Sherlock sets a fire of protective rage blazing in my bones. 

"He stays."

I command in what I hope sounds like my "Captain Watson" voice, as he likes to call it. Blessedly, my voice seems to work this time as piercing sea-foam eyes lock on mine. The nurses startle at my tone but do not release him.

I ball my hands into fists at my sides, at least I think I do, and frown harshly.

"I said he stays."

A haggard-looking nurse steps toward me, eyes full of sympathy.

"Sir, I really must insist, if he is not family - "

"He is."

I reply with conviction. Sherlock looks shocked but does not comment. 

The nurses look scandalized but they stop trying to physically force Sherlock into the reception area. With one last glare, they leave us alone in the room. 

Sherlock shuffles forward nervously and refuses to meet my eyes.

"I can't believe you lied to the nursing staff."

What the hell is Sherlock on about now?

My puzzled expression forecasts my confusion bright as day and Sherlock sighs. 

"You told them I was family."

Sherlock pauses but, clearly, there is more to the thought so I just resettle myself on the pillows and wait. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock asks,

"Why?"

His nervousness makes sense to me now. 

"Sherlock. Look at me, yeah?"

He raises his face slowly and even I can read the trepidation in his usually stoic face. 

"I told them that because it's true. You are family, Sherlock. Always have been."

The tears slipping from Sherlock's eyes are truly frightening. I've never seen him lose control of his emotions. It just doesn't happen. My lungs feel like twisted lead pipes choked by the weight of all the remaining debris of words left unsaid. My breath wheezes through creaky pipes and the pain is audible in each gasping, whistling exhale. I can't imagine what it would take to break Sherlock like this, but I know I do not want to hear it. My head is screaming for him not to say. Please God, don't let those words pass over his lips. Let everything be alright. Just this once.

"Please."

I don't even realize I said the last part out loud, and Sherlock's slender frame is hitching with the effort of silencing his sobs. A small hiccuping noise escapes and then his chest is properly heaving. Loud, painful gasps of air drawn hastily between the never-ending torrent of tears that streak his strong, aristocratic nose. The words, when they come are soft, forced, as if he won't ever be able to draw enough breath to breathe full life into these thoughts. 

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I did everything you asked of me. I did. I swear it. But I failed. I wasn't enough and now they're..."

He chokes on the last word and it is a mercy. I don't want to hear the last word, the final metaphorical nail in their very real coffins. My heart breaks for too many reasons at once: pain and loss over losing my girls, anger that I am forced to survive without them, and genuine horror that Sherlock had to be the one to tell me. He loved them too. I know he did. It's too much to ask of anyone, but it's especially heinous to ask it of him. Everything I do forces him to sacrifice over and over again. How many times must I ask that man to flay himself open for me?

Even while I wish the burden onto someone else, the realization hits me. There is no one else now. Sherlock is the only family I have left. Sudden relief washes over me, and I am immeasurably grateful that I woke in time to tell the staff. Sherlock is the only person I would want here at this moment.

I look up at him. I'm sure my face is a kaleidoscope of emotions I can't even begin to parse. The only thing I work to convey is gratitude. 

"Don't say it. Please. Just come here."

He walks the last few feet and stands warily next to the bed. I can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves. I reach out and take his hand in mine. He startles at the contact, but relaxes into the reassuring comfort. Logically, I know that I am filled with so much grief it barely seems possible to contain it, but right now, it seems I am the one comforting him. And, somehow, that feels right. I clasp his hand tightly and just let him cry. I run my thumb soothingly over his knuckles and wait it out. The bitter truth washes over me while Sherlock shakes and sobs and falls to pieces in front of my very eyes. But we will weather this storm like we always do. For now, this is enough. Our hands inexplicably woven together, a silent companionship in grief. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for everyone who demanded a resolution to this work, including Smmink.   
> I may or may not add to this work in the future, so if you have opinions on that please let me know in the comments. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading! I love each and every one of you wonderful people.


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